the constant smolder

There’s a fire 

A constant smolder 

In my gut

I’m afraid to let it burn 

Afraid that a spark will emerge 

On my tongue

Or in a gesture 

Afraid that everyone else is tinder 

So I douse it 

With distraction 

Or condemnation 

But the embers hide down deep 

They’re shoveled up again

By the tension 

And the heartbreak 

Oh how easily I can blow them into flames 

But I can cut off the oxygen 

They will fade

No one gets hurt 

And never know if honesty or captivity is worse

I don't know if I've ever written something so Enneagram One. I wrote this poem a while ago, prompted by so many circumstances, headlines, and confusions. It continues to apply over and over again, this week to the oppression of women throughout history based on questionable Biblical texts. I'm honestly too angry about it to write about it more yet. But it's a step to allow the anger toward something that has always seemed too sacred, off-limits for my negative emotions toward it. But I can't have any real faith like that. So here it goes.